


Kingsman: Flights of Fancy

by echo_grace



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: (Temporary?) One Shot, M/M, beginning with wings and fangs, inspired by an icon, slight branching AU form the first movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echo_grace/pseuds/echo_grace
Summary: "Angels" are a dying breed, virtually wiped out by the wars of the twentieth century. If any fullbloods still exist, they must not be strong enough to sprout the wings of legend . . . .Kingsman is mostly demonic* when Eggsy Unwin meets them, but otherwise works the same.(Brit-picking welcomed by this Texan.)
Relationships: eventual Eggsy Unwin/Harry Hart
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Kingsman: Flights of Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to hoping that purging some fic-beginnings from my brain-drive will create enough space for my Tron trilogy to wrap up. IDK if or when this story might continue, as I suspect I'll need a cowriter to flesh out a plot from my hazy musings.

PROLOGUE

Angels are a dying breed, virtually wiped out by the wars of the twentieth century. If any fullbloods still exist, they must not be strong enough to sprout the wings of legend.

Harry’s only seen an angel’s wings once, when Lee Unwin took the grenade meant for him. The burn marks of those wings still haunt Harry’s memory, seventeen years too late. There was no hint of Angel or Demon in his widow’s bloodline, so he never considered the possibility that young Eggsy might have inherited his father’s . . . uniqueness.

But when the light bent and warped around the boy edging his way out of Holborn(?) Station, creating the slightest hint of a halo effect, Harry briefly wondered if he was mistaken on that front as well – then promptly forgot once he caught the boy’s attention.

He couldn’t resist showing off a bit just over an hour later, clearing the angry air between himself and the boy while dealing with the thugs threatening them. He chugged down the last of his Guinness to give his snake-eyed irises and pointier-than-usual fangs a chance to fade, then he slapped a bug to the boy’s shoulder on a whim before leaving, refusing the urge to pat down his hair in search of the horns that the little brawl might’ve pulled out as well until he was safely inside a Kingsman cab, well away from any gawkers.

He almost regretted submitting Eggsy as his candidate while watching Merlin’s stream of the water challenge that night – not because of the boy’s surprising strength in breaking through glass with just a few punches, though that was quite impressive, but because of how the boy’s stocky body so easily cut through the water . . . and how long he could hold his breath.

Harry shook the thought from his head and turned his focus on finding James’s killer, beginning with Dr. Arnold. Eggsy will be safe in Merlin’s hands in the meantime . . . .

* * * * *

“FUCK YOOUU!!” Eggsy howled over the coming train, then squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the squish . . .

. . . that didn’t happen. He peeked an eye open, more surprised to see Harry standing in the stranger’s place than realizing he’d been lying on a bit of fake track all along (he might be getting the hang of Merlin’s sadistic little tricks at this rate).

“Bloody well done, Eggsy,” Harry said, the warm pride in his eyes sending Eggsy to cloud nine. He might’ve dipped a bit to cloud seven when Merlin mentioned the mission that got his da killed, but going home with Harry sent him straight back into the stratosphere.

They whiled away the afternoon and evening hours together in constant conversation, their only hiccup coming when Eggsy carelessly asked if Harry ever had to fight or work with any fangs or poofs –

“What,” Harry said before he could finish.

Eggsy’s breath caught, a sudden sense of being a prey animal under a hunter’s gaze forcing him to stillness. “Y’know,” he said with a shrug, trying to pull back their easy banter from earlier. “Demons and Angels. Have you ever – ”

“Best to call us that, then. Those names are derogatory enough.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eggsy said, failing to hide his eyeroll. “Old habit, I guess, and Charlie didn’t –” He broke off and blinked, finally catching on. “What you mean, ‘us’?”

Harry sat up and put his martini down. He pulled off his glasses and closed his eyes. A long moment passed, Harry’s naturally round face shifting into a more oval shape before his eyes opened again, their usual dark hazel turned an almost glittery golden. “I mean uss, Eggs-ssy,” he hissed, bottom lip gleaming under the fangtips peeking out.

Eggsy swallowed down a whimper and allowed himself a nod, heat simmering in his veins as he ordered himself _not to jump Harry_ over and over again while Harry resituated himself and returned to his previous posture. It’s a better reaction than wanting to drop to his knees after Harry beat up Dean’s dogs at the Prince . . . . He doubted Harry had been fooled, then or now, but his mentor once again made no indication of his thoughts about Eggsy’s little crush.

“We’re still human, after all,” Harry said, watching Eggsy over his martini glass as he took a sip.

“I know,” Eggsy said again. He blinked, but refused to break eye contact as he added, “I’m sorry, Harry. It won’t happen again.”

Harry nodded, and their conversation shifted from Harry’s tabloid cases to the mythology, history, and science around the Angel and Demon phenomenon, the air relaxing around them again.

They stayed up so late it was a struggle not to yawn his way through Harry’s table etiquette lesson the next morning, and he returned to the mansion with seconds to spare, collecting JB on the way to meeting with Merlin.

The quartermaster checked his watch when Eggsy jogged up with JB in his arms, the grandfather clock down the hall just beginning to strike the noon hour. Eggsy raised his eyebrows as his breathing calmed, and Merlin’s mouth quirked ever-so-slightly before his face smoothed out again. _Late again, Galahad._ Then Merlin nodded at Roxy and told her to follow him before informing Eggsy that Arthur wished to speak with him in the study.

It took a couple wrong turns for Eggsy to find his way to the study. He sat down at Arthur’s gesture, and was on the verge of reconsidering Harry and Merlin’s opinions on his potential future boss when Arthur turned a gun on him. He probably should’ve chuckled when Arthur paused and rolled the handle towards him, but his inner alarm bells were clanging so loud Eggsy could barely stand to release his grip on the chair to take it –

“Shoot the dog.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Shoot the dog.”

Feeling sick, Eggsy aimed between JB’s eyes – even stood and stepped away from his chair to get a little more distance – and still couldn’t do it. The gun raised, seemingly by its own volition, the _bang_ of rapport sounding awfully loud to Eggsy’s ears.

JB whipped around and started giving his own what-for, almost drowning out Arthur’s spluttering as Eggsy’s knees melted under him and he breathlessly called the pug back to shush him –

“Have you any idea how much that painting costs?!” Arthur finally yelled.

Mind still in a churning blank of shock, Eggsy looked to the most likely trajectory of his shot . . . straight between the eyes of some posh lady’s snooty cocker spaniel. “Less than an innocent’s life, I’m sure,” rolled out of his mouth. Then humor shot new energy into his legs, and he straightened with JB in his arms as a door opened further in the room. “’Sides, it ain’t like you specified _which_ dog to shoot.”

“Quite right, Eggsy,” Merlin said over Arthur’s renewed spluttering. He stepped up behind Arthur’s chair and glared at his king. “Please return to Galahad’s residence until evaluations are completed. Arthur and I have a few things to . . . _discuss_.”

Much like with the gun, Eggsy chose not to hear the slight hiss in Merlin’s words and left without a backward glance at Arthur’s hunching form.

Eggsy’s mind was still in a whirl when he walked into Harry’s house again. It must’ve shown on his face, as the older man took one look and yanked Eggsy into his arms, JB squawking a protest at the squeeze.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Eggsy. Your test wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” Harry murmured into his hair.

The sense of calm relaxing Eggsy’s limbs froze, his lungs catching on a breath. “How’s it s’pposed to happen.” He pulled out of Harry’s arms to look him in the eye, already feeling a wall slide down between them. Something in him started begging _please please please_ , though he couldn’t nail down what he was hoping for.

Harry’s arms fell away, hands hiding in his pants pockets like they knew Eggsy wouldn’t like the answer. “The test is to see how blindly you trust your handler to know what needs to be done, as well as gauge your willingness to kill an apparent innocent on those orders. As Chester King rarely even observes on missions, he shouldn’t have been the one administering the test to begin with. He should not have pretended any kinship with you over JB, let alone replace the blank that was supposed to be in that gun with a real bullet. As close as you two were sitting together, JB would have been hurt no matter the projectile the gun issued –”

“Did you shoot your dog.”

Harry flinched, shutters coming down and killing the worried warmth in his gaze. “It was a blank, Eggsy. Mr. Pickle came out unharmed and died eleven years later –”

“You shot to kill an innocent relying on you for protection.” Eggsy stumbled back, clutching JB tight again. “You’d kill me on King’s say-so – ”

“Eggsy, no –”

“I’m jus’ a drop-out, drug-runnin’ _chav_. No one any a’ you posh snobs have any use for. You’s jus’ he’pin me to pay back me Da, ain’t you.”

Harry stepped back at the hit, further widening the gap between them. His mouth gaped, eyes darting back and forth while his head shook a faint _no_ . . . but he didn’t deny it.

_So much for potential._ Eggsy straightened against the burn in his eyes. “Consider your debt paid in full.”

“Eggsy –”

He’s out the door and back in the cab in the next heartbeat, tears blurring his vision. “Take me home.”

The driver hesitated, probably looking up at Galahad’s house.

“ _Please_ take me home,” Eggsy tried instead, and the cab pulled out and away just as Galahad’s frame appeared at his door.

“Which way to ‘home,’ Sir?”

Eggsy couldn’t stop the sobs then. _Do I **have** a home anymore?_

His return ‘home’ lasted all of two hours, if that – just long enough for Eggsy to change and try to readjust to his civilian clothes again, introduce JB to Daisy and Mum, then get a raging mad-on at the black eye on his Mum’s face. He’s within shouting distance of Dean and his dogs at the Prince when a far-too-fancy cab shrieks to a stop a few meters behind him. The noise pulls attention his way, which slightly annoys him, then then the cab reverses to reach him as Rottie stands up for a taunt.

“Mister Eggsy, Sir!” a new voice shouts, yanking his eyes from the group to the cab driver. “Master Carmichael has requested your assistance at the shop, Sir.”

_Who the fuck is Carmichael?_ “Wot’s ‘e want,” Eggsy demands.

The cabbie just shrugs. “He’s our company magician, Sir. I’ve learned not to ask.”

_Merlin. Fuck._ Eggsy might still be a teensy bit scared of the man.

“Ah. Is yer Sugar Daddy callin’ you t’ heal, Mugsy?” someone in Dean’s group yells.

The walk over has calmed Eggsy down enough to recognize the lesser of two evils, not that he’s thrilled to give in to either of them. “Fine,” he says, arms flying up. “Let’s go talk to _Carmichael_.” He climbs in the back –

_“What bloody part of ‘go to Galahad’s house’ translates to ‘pick a fight in the Estates,’ boy?”_ a Scottish brogue growls out of the front seat before he even shuts the door.

Eggsy’s chin juts out in rebellion. “You gave me a dog t’ care for durin’ my trainin’. If I can’t trust me own mentor wif his safety, I can’ trust anyone in Kingsman. So I took ‘im home.”

_“Harry wouldn’t –”_ Merlin cuts himself off, huffing instead. _“Please return to Galahad’s house **and stay there**.”_

“Why? Ain’t like I passed your test.”

_“As far as I’m concerned, you did. And as the test administrator_ _–”_

“Y’can’t tell me you’ll take me over Roxy. I heard her gun go off, too –”

_“Which only means you’re both still in the running_ _–”_

“Master Merlin, Sir,” the cabbie suddenly chimes in. “Perhaps I could take over the conversation from here? Galahad’s likely ready for his briefing on where he’s going by now.”

A frustrated sigh gusts over the connection before Merlin agrees. _“Aye, he’s probably figured out I’ve stopped listening to his bellyachin’ over th’ lad by this point. Thank you, Paul.”_

He hangs up, and an awkward moment of silence passes before the cabbie glances at Eggsy through the rearview mirror and starts chuckling.

Eggsy glares. “Wot?”

The cabbie shakes his head. “It’s a rare soul who stands up to our Merlin, a rarer one still who does so during the training process. We’ll be keeping you around for sure, even if you don’t reach a knight’s ranking.”

“I won’ shoot me dog.”

“And you don’t have to, sir.” The cabbie glances at him again. “I take it Galahad didn’t mention that part? He has a tendency to omit information to push someone to their best.”

The “What?” pops out of Eggsy before he can stuff it down.

“Outside of extreme breaches like what young Mr. King did the other day, the top three to five recruits find their way into Kingsman’s circle. Unless you actively betray Kingsman’s alter-ego, you will be shuffled into one of its many branches – those of us with spouses and children, for example, often become drivers or work in the shop, since those are the jobs closest to home and with the steadiest timetables.”

“When’d you wash out?” Eggsy asks, daring to be curious.

An amused grin fluffs out the cabbie’s cheek as Eggsy leans forward. “I told the stranger with a knife that the only Kingsman I knew about was a tailor shop my uncle – now known as Valiant – visited regularly. Not exactly a bad answer, except –”

“You outed your uncle as an agent. And you pointed an enemy to Kingsman’s primary post.”

The cabbie glances approval back to Eggsy, nodding. “Indeed. It didn’t wash me out completely, but it knocked me out of the running to become a knight – and all to the better, really. Lee and James both had far more charisma and charm than I did – ”

“You knew my Da?”

A convenient stoplight give the cabbie an excuse to brake and turn back. “ _You’re_ little Eggsy?”

Eggsy nods.

“Yea, Gods. Now I feel old. Figures, though.” He turns to face forward again. “Your dad had a leg up on the rest of us, having actually served in the military. He was also the only one to question Arthur – who was running our tests, since Merlin was playing our patsy – and started catching on to how safe we really were . . . at least, until that last mission.”

The light turns green. They’re almost back to Harry’s house.

“Wait. What patsy?”

“Ah. Another secret unrevealed?” Eggsy waits, and the cabbie gives in. “The drowner from the first night. If they’re rescued, they have to wash out later. Usually during the parachute test. Merlin was still close enough in age to appear to fit amongst us, and Lee kept him ‘alive.’ Only the third time that’s ever happened, I believe. He was the first to figure out the mirror, though he wasn’t able to break it like you did – Bravo on that.”

_Like, father, like son._ Eggsy sits back to contemplate as the brakes squeak softly to a stop. _Maybe I can still make him proud ._ . . .

* * * * *

It doesn’t take long for Harry to realize the church must be a miscalculation. He certainly can’t imagine Valentine _willingly_ working with anyone in this congregation, even if they’re full of geniuses at or above Valentine’s intelligence level. He tries to hold off leaving until a reasonable break – perhaps during the choir music, or something similar – but when faces he knows start popping into his head at every derogative line of spittle from the pastor’s lips, Harry decides he’s had enough. “Excuse me,” he murmurs to the pretty blonde lady blocking his exit.

“Where y’goin’?” she asks, the sunlight making her green eyes shine.

Irritated and strangely antsy, he begins with, “I’m a Catholic whore,” making her eyebrows shoot up as she turns to face him. By the time he ends with, “So hail Satan, and have a lovely day, miss,” she’s shaking and chewing at her lip like she’s trying not to laugh at him.

“So I’ll just . . . show you where the restrooms are, shall I?” she offers, a tear slipping down one cheek before she gets up. He blinks up at her as she gestures to the sanctuary’s exit, but gathers his wits quickly enough to follow. Several of the people they had been sitting in front of give them a pointed glance and frown, a few of the ladies adding a derogatory sniff before raising their noses in the air at Harry’s and the young lady’s passage. The pastor’s words sharpen when they reach the door and Harry reaches to hold it for her – “Keep your pants on, Gary,” the girl says, waving off whatever condemnation the pastor’s flinging at them. “I’m merely showing our guest to the restrooms.”

The door closes on the pastor’s enraged spluttering, and Harry releases a breath when no one gets up to ‘chaperone’ them, or some nonsense . . . then the girl starts laughing.

“Oh, Good Lord, _thank you_ for being here,” she heaves, brushing some hair from her face. “I’ll probably get exorcised by the end of service, but hearing your tirade was worth it – you must’ve been listening very well, to get so many of their hang-ups in one fell swoop like that. Your black boyfriend working in the army abortion clinic must be so proud of you.” She winks, another giggle breaking out as she grins at him.

“I must say, I’m surprised,” Harry says. “How are you not offended by anything I listed?”

“I came for my uncle’s funeral yesterday n got guilt-tripped into staying for this horror of a service – if anything, it’s only shown why I’ve never felt very comfortable with this side of my family. I’m Grace Townsend, by the way.” She offers her hand.

“Harry Hart.” He impulsively leans down and kisses her knuckles – and sure enough, there’s a blush in her cheeks when he rises. “And much as I hate leaving you to the ravaging wolves, I must –”

“Don’t make me a liar?” she asks, grip tightening on his as she steps closer. “You don’t have to _use_ ‘em or anything, but could I at least . . .” her head gestures to a branch of the hallway, and he remembers.

“Ah. Yes, of course. Please show me where the restrooms are.”

Grace squeezes his hand in thanks and strolls down the hallway, lit only by splashes of sunlight. The pastor must add something particularly horrid as they round the nearest corner of the sanctuary, the sound getting subtly louder before quieting again. “May I be a bit nosy, Harry?” she asks.

His instincts go on alert, but he keeps it casual. “As long as I have the right to refuse an answer, you can ask me anything, I suppose.”

She smirks and nods, then takes a moment to phrase it in her head. “What in the world brought you to this little cesspool of hatred?”

He barely keeps his eyebrows from shooting up. “Ah. I suspect an acquaintance of mine was playing a little prank,” Harry starts. “He overheard me wondering about all the American denominations of the Church, and this was the first on his list of suggestions, should I ever be in the area.”

She snorts. “Prob’ly not an acquaintance you wanna become friends with. Are you gonna keep going with the list, or toss it out altogeth- –” Grace hisses out a breath, clutching at her forehead as she stops and sways in place.

A ringing erupts in Harry’s ears, his earlier restlessness reviving and multiplying to a ridiculous degree as he reaches for her elbow. “Are you alright?” He can’t really hear her answer – he thinks he reads the word ‘migraine’ on her lips – but a growl from behind them provides a lovely distraction. He shoves Grace behind him as the other man charges, the room bleaching increasingly monochrome in his vision. It’s hardly any effort to stomp the man into the ground: a few easily dodged swings, a knee to the gut, and a head-first shove into the wall breaks his neck and ends the fight, leaving Harry hissing with annoyed victory. He wants a _challenge_ , damnit!

A voice he would trust with his soul trickles past the ringing in his ears, pulling him away from the body and back to the cowering, whimpering girl he’d been protecting. He can’t understand the words right now, so he reaches past the shimmer surrounding the girl to yank her to her feet. “Grace-ss.” Her name becomes a hiss. His fangs must be out. She blinks and shudders at him, looking away as she sways and swallows thickly. Her hands raise to grip his biceps, and he shakes her. “Grace-ss. Get out of here.” Something bangs in the sanctuary, and he forces himself to ease his grip on her arms to point at the exit glowing at the end of the hallway. “Run until you feel better, then get help.”

Her head shakes. “Only filthy heretics aren’t in church today,” she mutters in a monotone.

An impulse to slap her zips through his mind too fast for Harry to act on it. “Then find a heretic and _get help_.” He shoves her away, and she stumbles into blinding light when the door opens. The fire alarm screeches, further drowning out the voice in his ears, but he goes to search the body anyway, trying to ignore the heavy, blood-scented air. His mouth waters at it, but he resists until he digs out the man’s phone –

– and comes to in a room full of carnage. A creak and odd slurping sound draws his eyes to the impaled pastor, who settles a little further down on the broken pole that was holding a banner thirty minutes ago. Something drips on his shoe, and looking down shows him the blood-and-gore-filled claws his fingernails have become. Something else pulls at the base of his spine, and a long, bloodied, arrow-tipped tail wraps itself around his chest and over his opposite shoulder like a demented hug. He shudders. “Oh, God.”

_“Galahad?_ _Galahad, can you hear me?”_ Merlin calls, sounding almost as gutted as Harry feels.

“Dear God, Merlin. What have I done?”

_“Not you,”_ Merlin corrects. Harry almost finds it humorous. _“Valentine likely expected you to get lynched by the church-mob. He couldn’t have predicted you were our best hand-to-hand fighter, **before** getting juiced up.”_

_Valentine._ “Where is he?”

Merlin hesitates, then the soft click-clack of keyboard keys sifts through their link. “. . . Outside.”

_Oh._ “Well, then.” Harry straightens and pulls his suit jacket closed, trying in vain to get as little blood on it as possible while the tail reluctantly loosens around him, leaving a streak of its own behind. “I suppose we ought to let him do the explaining, shan’t we.”

_“Harry, no. You’re in shock, this isn’t a good idea_ _–”_

Like Harry doesn’t know that. But he might as well get all the information he can for Merlin and the next knight in line . . . .

Even if he survives this encounter, he’ll be off the case.

* * * * *

“Harry’s dead.”

The words fall heavy in his gut, even as he wonders why the hell he’s telling Arthur this. After Merlin, surely Kingsman’s king would be the first to know –

“I know,” Arthur tells him in an equally hollow voice. Then he slaps on a smile and waves Eggsy further into the room, encouraging Eggsy to sit in the chair closest to him while he spouts off about the sherry or whatever he’s pouring into a couple tiny glasses.

Eggsy’s eyes snag on a tiny scar just behind Arthur’s ear during the lecture, and everything falls quiet in his head. His usual rage-heat banks into ice, his training takes over, and he does what must be done. He slips downstairs and tells Andrew (Andrews? Is it the bloke’s first name or last?) that Galahad’s dead and Kingsman betrayed – “I need to speak with Merlin.”

“O-of course, Sir. I believe Dressing Room Two is available,” Andrew(s?) says, leaning back and tugging at the hem of his jacket to hide the shake in his hands before leading the way.

_Why keep up the act_ , Eggsy almost asks. Ain’t like no one else is here –

Movement snags his focus, and the world falls away as he approaches his reflection. His eyes burn, his vision blurring as his throat thickens. He can almost feel the heat of Harry’s ghost slip up behind him. _Tell me, what do you see?_ –

“What shall I tell the others, Sir?”

Eggsy jumps, Harry’s ghost vanishing before he can turn around. Warm-wet streaks down his cheek as Harry whispers, _My God . . . What have I done?_ “Tell ‘em to get their arses as far from Valentine’s SIM cards as they can. Find a hole and stay there for the next few days, or until Merlin calls ‘em.” _Whichever comes first._

Andrew(s) nods. “Very good, Sir.” He presses a hand to a nearby mirror and steps away as the floor lurches into movement. “I would wish you luck, but a Knight rarely needs it. I shall advise Merlin of your return and close the shop for the night – he knows how to reach me, if that should change.” He bows and disappears, leaving Eggsy to his silent tears as the floor descends into darkness.

Landing on the wrong side of Roxy’s gun should faze him more, but it only gives him a slight pang of betrayal before Merlin tells her to stand down. Once Eggsy produces King’s phone and the device from King’s neck, she glomps onto him and refuses to let go until Merlin tells them to get on the plane –

_What._ “Where was you goin’ in such a hurry. Harry’s _dead_ an’ you –”

“– were going to retrieve his body,” Merlin says, wiggling King’s phone at Eggsy. “But I’m sure Harry wouldn’t mind waiting until _after_ we save the world. Now get on the damned plane and quit arguing with me, boy.”

* * * * *

The gems on her cross dig into her skin again as another wave of worry washes over her. The empty white room goes dark around her as memory rises, dried blood flaking off her hands. The scent catches in her nose, pulling her back into the present.

Why is she more worried about a stranger she barely knew for five minutes than the aunt she grew up with? What had made Harry change, and why wasn’t she repelled by it? Why has no one contacted her – either to find out if she was okay, or to lambast her for leaving church early? Why had the rancher-turned-secret-agent told her not to go inside, still green around the gills even after puking in the bushes?

And why _the fuck_ did Richmond Valentine try to assassinate _Harry_ , of all people?

“A question I’d very much like answered,” a new voice drawls, making her jump. The old cowboy smiles an apology for startling her, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His legs stretch out from his seat, crossing at the ankles. “Tequila tells me –”

“ _Please_ tell me that isn’t his actual name.”

Amusement flickers over the cowboy’s face before he shuts it down. “It’s the only name he answers to here.” He jolts upright and onto his feet. “Speakin’ of, my name’s Champ, Miss . . . ?”

She glances at his open palm and feels her lip curl. “Champ of what – lame-brained code names?”

“You’re a poet and didn’t know it,” he mutters, hand retreating. “It’s short for ‘Champagne,’ so I’m sure you could guess – ”

She laughs. “Dear God, you’re all named for _booze?_ Do you name your recruits Beer and Wine and move ‘em up from there?”

Champ’s teeth grit. “An excellent suggestion. I’ll make sure to –”

“Shove it back where the sun don’t shine.” An oil slick pretending to be a man saunters in, and she has a sudden wild urge to step between him and the cowboy. _~~What the hell?~~_ “Don’t look like the concerned Papa Bear act’s workin’, Champ. Maybe I could give it a go?”

Champ gives a shrug-nod-wave combo and steps back. A predatory glint lights Oil Slick’s eyes, and she finds herself edging away as he pushes forward.

“They call me Whiskey, Beautiful –”

“I call Bullshit,” she rebuts just before a pointy corner slams into her from skull to butt. She doesn’t dare blink, let alone rub at the soreness. “You’re too sleezy for whiskey.” That much stops him in his tracks, at least. “You should be Rum or Bathtub Gin or some other shit only the addicted desperate would swallow – Mouthwash, maybe.”

A woman laughs, breaking the battle. “Oohh, I like her. She’s feisty.” All eyes turn to the petite lady in a white coat, who bats her lashes at Champ. “Can we keep her? Pleeease?”

Like a pin poking a balloon, tension fizzles out of the air as Champ heaves a gusty sigh. “What’d you find on our Mystery Man, Ginge?”

Dr Ginge(. . . er?) doesn’t waste time to pout, flipping her clipboard over to read out her notes. “Caucasian male, 53, hailing from the upper classes of London, if I’ve read his dialect correctly. ‘Harry’ has very strong interests in butterflies, Arthurian legends, and multiple forms of combat and espionage, as well as some very interesting tech I’m looking forward to picking apart. Also, he has the set of genetic quirks that label him as a demon, though I’ve never seen one so mild mannered or so thoroughly transformed.” Her clipboard drops again. “He’s a fascinating conundrum who probably won’t wake up for at least a week, so maybe quit harassing the kid.” She shoots a not-quite-glare at Oil Slick, who glares back.

“Can I see him?” Grace asks, edging closer to the doctor.

Dr, Ging . . .er – _is that better or worse than ‘Pepper’?_ – glances at Champ, and nods Grace through.


End file.
